In Paris with You
by BuryTheHatchet
Summary: Revolving around Jet Lag, but if I add more one-shots to this, they will all be AU, which, really, this is AU anyway, but this actually has an episode with which it fits. Read the Author's Note for details of what will happen if I continue.


**Okay. One-shot time! I have been thinking about doing a series of one-shots about TIVA in cities across the world. I do not know what you would all think about that. I do not know, though. It would probably just be something that I did every so often, dropping back into it when I wanted to. I actually wrote this one ages ago, and I have another that I wrote on the back of a hotel menu about a year ago – I had not noticed that it was the menu I was writing on, and they said that they did not want it back after I scrawled across it.**

 **I always wanted them to go to Paris, probably when they first mentioned Paris in…oh, I have forgotten the name of the episode…um…the one with the models. In season three. When they were discussing Paris then, at the beginning, I thought that they would be great in Paris. Imagine my joy when they actually went to Paris.**

 **This is sort of a tag to Jet Lag, albeit something like seven years late (has it really been that long?), and is partially based off a dream I had as well as a trip to Paris I made a couple of years ago with a friend – neither related to one another.**

 **The title comes from the poem of the same name by James Fenton. It is one of my favourite modern poems.**

 **The weather here is being really odd. It has been alternating between perfectly clear blue skies and flat grey skies, and all of a sudden, with no warning, it has just got really, really dark and started tipping it down. Yay for British weather.**

 **…**

In Paris With You

They had been there before. Different hotel, different city, different country, different continent, but it was still the same. Except for this time, it was he who was out on the balcony and she was the one exploring the room, assessing the positives and negatives. It is then, once she has eyeballed the king-sized for a good three minutes, that she creeps up behind him, her breath tickling his cheek and her lips brushing against his ear as she whispers to him. "Can you imagine it now, Tony?" Her voice is low, seductive and husky.

"Imagine what?" His voice is tight as he stood tense, trying to maintain his self-control with her pressed against his back, allowing him to feel every one of her curves. The teasing is getting old, and he wishes she would just put him out of his misery.

"Me and Paris."

"Huh?" He swallowed, trying to find where it was that all of his saliva had suddenly disappeared to. His mind was becoming hazy as he stood in a cloud of Eau de Ziva.

"I remember you once saying that you could not imagine Paris and me together. Can you imagine it now?"

"Still not convinced yet." The first lie of their stay. He had been convinced from the moment Vance mentioned Paris. The moment Vance requested volunteers. The moment he had fallen into a very good dream featuring a certain Israeli, a hotel room and a balcony overlooking the City of Love. In fact, if his memory served him correctly, his snarky comment all those years ago, just like the lie he had just told, had been just that, something that would distract her from the fact that he would be dreaming about being in Paris that night, with her lithe body next to his, a sheen of sweat covering both of them. He felt her body pull away from him, a cold gust of wind hitting his back as she moved inside. "Of course, that isn't to say that I'll never be convinced."

* * *

They were not holding hands. Of course, they were not. They were not really the hand-holding sort of people. He was too scared of commitment and she was too scared to get her heart broken again, not that either of them would admit it. But this was not holding hands. It was not as significant or momentous as holding hands. A pinky finger was not a whole hand. It was the smallest of the fingers and the weakest. It was insignificant. But as they walked across the Pont d'Iéna towards the glowing lights of the tower, their shared silence allowing the noise of the city to wash over them, their little fingers were their connection, the physical tether that symbolised the metaphorical link between them.

He pulled her across the road, his eagerness to reach the tower evident as he disregarded the blaring horn of a taxi they had jumped in front of. He had never been there. Only seen photos and films. It was somewhere he had always wanted to go to with a beautiful woman. He was there with a beautiful woman. Only he was not _with_ her. They were not together, not in the sense he would have liked. They were working.

She had been there before, seen it all before, and yet never had she enjoyed the company as much as she was. Never had she had his finger wrapped around her own, securing her to him. Never had she seen it so beautiful, so enchanting. It had just been a place. Maybe it had been nicer than places she had been to, yes, but never had it been magical. Never had she wished for an eternity there, in that night, never-ending and never-changing. She wanted to stay as she was, the warmth of his body diffusing through the slight chill of the air to meet her arm, the comfort of having him next to her. But maybe she was too comfortable with him – the temptation to lay her head on his shoulder was engulfing her, pulling her closer to him so their arms brushed.

He stared up in awe as they stood below the iron structure, illuminated by the yellow glow of the lights. If he had not left the camera in their hotel room, he would have been snapping shots from every other angle. But Ziva had locked it in her bedside cabinet after he had insisted on waking her up from her nap to show her the photos he had taken when walking the city in the afternoon. She had promised he could have it back in the morning but refused to let him take it out to dinner.

She cared very little for the lattice of metal above them her focus entirely on his glistening eyes as they reflected the lights. They were childlike and bright, and she worried that he would end up with a stiff neck if he held his head up for too much longer.

He caught her by surprise when he snapped his eyes to hers, their gazes locked, and he smiled warmly at her. He lifted his arm up, the one with their linked pinkies, and shrugged when she gave him a questioning glance. Clearly, she did not understand the concept of dancing as she merely stared, not pulling away but not doing anything about the arch formed by their arms, and he reached over with his other hand to touch her hip, guiding her into a spin. She hesitated before obeying, ending up facing him, their eyes back on one another's. He released her finger, only to re-join their hands, palms pressed together and fingers locked as his other hand settled at the top of her hip. She appeared surprised when her hand automatically curled over his shoulder, the opposite of the one she had wanted to rest her head on mere moments before.

"We have no music." It was a plain, simple statement, but it had taken her a minute to formulate it, struggling for words as she felt him brush his fingertips against her back and his thumb against the slight ridge of her hipbone that could be felt through her tight jeans.

He chuckled quietly, bowing his head so his lips were by her ear, his hot breath tickling the delicate skin of her cheek. "Since when, Ziva David, have we ever needed someone else's music?"

She worried that the close proximity was the cause of her flushed cheeks, and more worried that he would notice, so she looked down to their feet. "I think that maybe we have been dancing to someone else's music since we met." Her words were soft, spoken to the ground and almost mumbled, and yet he heard every word clear as day, for she was the centre of his attention. She always was.

"Maybe that's where we've been going wrong." His tone was serious as he started to sway, shifting from foot to foot, pulling her with him in time with their own tune.

They had started with inches between their bodies, almost a foot, but as their feet moved the distance between them closed ever so slowly. When the gap was reduced so far that the crown of her head, with her eyes still on the ground, bumped into his chin, he used his nose to nuzzle her cheekbone, trying to encourage her to lift her eyes to his. It was the soft, spur-of-the-moment kiss to her cheek that caused her to stare at him, her imploring gaze trying to figure out what it meant. Their steps faltered as his face fell and he went to drop her hand at her rejection just as the corners of her eyes twitched and her lips gave a gentle smile. She placed her head on his chest, tucking her head under his chin to dissuade him from pulling away. Their swaying resumed as a grin spread across his face at the feeling of having her so close, her small hand in his and her soft hair tickling his lips. At some point she had moved her ear from his heart, accepting the touch of his lips to her forehead as her eyes made their way to look into his, and the depth of the other's took each of them aback as they lost themselves in the deep pools, drowning out everything around them with a heavy yet comfortable silence.

The wordless, unanimous decision to leave came about when she moved her hand from his shoulder and turned away, not before pressing a feather-light, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. The joined hands remained linked, fingers entwined together like the roots of two old trees.

"Un euro?" He was old, bushy-browed and beret-ed. Iconically French. A polaroid camera hung around his neck and his hand clutched a black and white instant picture of a couple dancing under the Eiffel Tower, her cheek on his chest and his chin on top of her head.

It took him a moment to realise that they were the couple in the photograph, and in that time she had already handed over a coin and was accepting the photograph, smiling as she looked at it. "Merci beaucoup."

* * *

She yawned as they stepped into the hotel room, walking over to the French windows and opening them onto the balcony, allowing the light, translucent curtains to billow out in the gentle breeze that entered the room. He walked out to join her as she leant against the wrought iron of the railing, pressing their arms together. "Beautiful." He sighed, his eyes on her face as she looked across the city.

"It is." She looked up at him, feeling his eyes on her face, and realisation flooded through her mind when he smiled at her, the knowledge that he had not been talking about the network of lights hitting her. "This is not one of your movies, Tony."

"I know. I never said it was." He had been refraining from quoting any films all through their flight and all through the day, wanting to keep her in the best mood possible whilst he savoured his favourite city.

"If you know, then what was the dancing for?" She had been stuck in her head for too long, their comfortable silence affording her time to sink to the recesses of her mind where doubt lurked and disbelief ruled.

"I wanted to dance with you." His fingers touched hers and he leant his lips closer to her ear as he spoke.

"We cannot do this, whatever this is." Her voice was strained, quiet as his breath trailed down her jawbone. "We cannot do something just because we are in Paris. There are rules. There are boundaries."

"Ziva, forget the rules."

"We cannot." She was struggling to think, struggling to breathe and to speak as he turned her in his arms, settling his hands on her hips and nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck, his lips occasionally dragging across her skin. "I cannot."

"Why?"

"Because I will not be able to go back when we get home." It was the first time he had ever heard her refer to DC as home before, and his mouth curved up in a smile as he pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "I will not forget just because we are in a different country."

"I never said you had to."

"Tony." She had her hands wound in his hair and used them to pull him from her, growing frustrated. "You do not feel like this for me, you feel like this for Paris. I have told you that I need something permanent, and this is not permanent."

Hurt flashed through his eyes momentarily before he hid it by dropping his lids, his hands falling to hang by his sides and his shoulders slumping. He would have argued his case further if he had not come to the sudden realisation that she was trying to let him down lightly, she was telling him in her gentlest manner that she was not attracted to him. He thought, after analysing ever conversation they had ever had, every glance, every brush of skin, that she had been attracted to him, that she had felt something. He cast his mind back over conversations from when they first met to just before the summer, the way she had focused on him more than anyone else, her eyes always tracing his form, studying his features. He thought, even if he had figured it out later that he probably should have, that he finally understood what she wanted, what she felt for him, what _he_ felt for _her_. "Right. Yeah." He nodded, turning away and looking down on the city that did not seem as beautiful as it had moments before. "I think I'm, uh, gonna…I'm just gonna, y'know, for a bit…" He turned to leave, picking up one of the key cards from the desk and slamming the door behind him. She watched down as he ran out of the hotel and immediately started haggling with a guy renting Vespas out to let him keep it over night.

She snapped to her senses just as he was handing money over, and she called his name, making him look up. It felt so 'Romeo and Juliet', leaning over the balcony to talk to him, and she grimaced at the thought. It was her least favourite of all of Shakespeare's works. She held a finger up before darting out of the room and running to join him on the pavement outside.

"Why?"

She was not certain what he meant, but gave the answer on the tip of her tongue. "Because I cannot ignore the repercussions of doing this." He nodded, taking in a shaky breath and accepting the key to the scooter. "But, I cannot ignore the repercussions of not doing this, either." He looked up then, eyebrows raised as she walked over to him, touching her fingertips to his hairline.

"I thought you didn't want this."

She paused, hesitating slightly as she struggled to figure out what she wanted to say. "I do not want this to be a mistake. I do not want for us to get back to DC and for you to regret what you have done." She smiled sadly as she looked down. I thought that was what would happen."

"But you don't anymore?"

"I do not think that you have the wrong intentions. I cannot guarantee that you will not still regret it, though."

He shook his head, moving his hand to cup her cheek. "Never."

* * *

She cracked an eye open to see two bright green orbs staring at her. "Did you watch me sleep all night?" Her voice was sleep-filled and rough.

"I did sleep for a couple of hours in the middle." He smiled, tucking a strand of her hair away from her face, the backs of his fingers skimming across her cheek as he withdrew his hand.

"Why?"

"Can't take my eyes off of you." He shrugged, wondering if she knew the song. He rolled over, swinging his legs out of bed and stretching. "We still need to buy a postcard for the team."

She stared at Tony's bare back, hints of a smile playing on her lips as she watched the well-disguised muscle tense slightly before relaxing as he rolled his shoulders. She had to avert her eyes when he looked over his shoulder. "Hmm?"

"Postcard, for the team."

"Oh. I do not understand that. I have no doubt that McGee will phone us before we leave, and we will be getting back this evening. It seems redundant sending a postcard when we will reach DC before it does."

"It's sentiment, Ziva. I dunno, it's just the done thing." He made his way towards the bathroom in his boxers before turning to look at her. "Do you want to shower first or can I use it?"

"You may use it." She smiled, slipping out of bed herself and walking over to the balcony, her bare feet sensitive to the cool terracotta tile as she stepped out and sat on the little, wrought iron table and chair that matched the railing.

* * *

He was walking out of the hotel when he spotted her at a gift shop across the road, studying postcards as if they were evidence files. He pulled the handle up on his suitcase and slung her backpack over his shoulder as he wondered, not for the first time, why he never learnt from her and packed lighter, before crossing the street. She had handed his camera back to him just as they were leaving, and truth be told he had forgotten all about it by the time she placed the silver block in his hand, and he fished it out of his pocket, trying to discreetly photograph her. Alas, she was too good for him. She knew he was there before she even looked up, and the smile that spread across her face when she saw him was preserved forever. She was humming when he finally joined her, a familiar tune, and he had to pause for a moment to place it. And then it dawned upon him. Frankie Valli. He was not certain if he was glad she got his reference or not. It was not _really_ a declaration of love, more a reference to his partner's beauty. But what if she took it to _be_ a declaration of love? Well, it was not an out-and-out lie. Quite close to the truth, actually. "What about this one for the team?" She handed him a card with a night-time shot of the city on the front.

"Uh, yeah. That's good."

For some reason, she found his lack of enthusiasm less than encouraging. "Tony, you are the one who wants to get a card, you should be the one to choose."

"I mean, I like it more than the others." He shrugged again as he took her hand, tracing the creases along her palm.

"What is wrong?" It was exactly what she had not wanted, for him to regret her.

"You realise that everyone is going to know. As soon as we get back, they'll all know. And they'll all look down on us because it's not professional and they'll think we don't have any self-control."

"They do not have to. We do not have to tell them."

"They'll still know. Gibbs'll see it immediately. I don't want to let go of you, Ziva. I don't want to have to let you out of my sight." Just the minutes he had been checking out, when she had gone outside, he was struggling, worried that she would simply disappear, evaporate like a dream. "I can't do that at work, in DC." His voice was almost whimpering now, and she saw the regret in his face.

It was not the regret that she had feared – she had feared he would regret sleeping with her because they were partners, and the only reason he had slept with her was because he was in Paris, and that was what happened in Paris – he regretted their night in Paris because she now he had had a taste, he did not want to let go. She figured this was what an addiction was like. She smiled softly and twisted her hand in his so their fingers were locked, stepping closer to him. "Then we just have to make the most of Paris this morning, and when we get back we prove them wrong. We show them that we can be professional and we do have self-control." He looked down at the ground and she reached up to put her palm on his cheek, touching his lips with her thumb. "Hey, we will be okay." He looked at her and she sighed. "You are worried about Gibbs?"

"He has a rule. He made it perfectly clear when we left that nothing was to happen."

"If that was going to be an issue then maybe you should have thought about that last night." She did not say it coldly, but with a soft chiding. "Tony, look at me. Gibbs will not do anything. McGee and Abby might laugh, and make a bit of money, but nobody will do anything."

"How do you know?"

She touched her lips to hers, stalling, until he pulled away. She then turned to fiddle with one of the buttons on his shirt. "You all went half way around the world for me. You risked your lives. The team, they love us. Besides, can you really imagine Abby actually letting Gibbs do anything about it?" He chuckled slightly and shook his head before resting his cheek upon the crown of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo as her hair brushed his nose. "Right then. We have nothing to worry about, Tony. We will be okay."

 **…**

 **The trip to Paris that I mentioned in the AN was one of my first business trips, and I was having quite a difficult time and I really did not want to go, and so my best friend, without telling me, booked a plane ticket and a hotel room and surprised me by sitting next to me on the plane. He made sure to arrive late so that he was the last one on the plane and I did not notice him until he sat down and asked me if I would mind him falling asleep on my shoulder, an inside joke from a bus journey we took together a year or so before that had stuck. I remember being so angry that he had wasted his money on booking a flight and hotel room when I knew he had been saving for a new car because his old one was on its last legs. He just shrugged, took my hand and squeezed it as the plane started taxying, knowing my dislike of flying. We only saw one another at breakfast and after I had finished with meetings in the evenings, and we would go for walks through Paris, just walking along the streets at sunset until about 10 pm. Anyway, on our last night there we went to the Eiffel Tower, which we had been too far away from to properly visit without public transport, and we just danced under the tower without any music, just silent dancing. We did nothing else that night, no photos, no food, barely any talking, but it is possibly one of my favourite memories.**

 **For my reference: 55th NCIS fic.**


End file.
